Snakehead

and counterterrorism. The men who had just broken into the compound came from Group 4, also called Sandhi Yudha, a counterintelligence group based in Cijantung in the south of Jakara with special responsibility for smuggling operations in and out of Jakarta. It might have been luck that had brought them here. Or it could have been the result of a tip-off. But Alex saw that as far as he and Ash were concerned, their work might be over. They’d eventually be able to talk their way out of prison…Ash would only have to prove that he worked for ASIS. But doing so would destroy his cover. They would never find out how the snakehead had planned to get them into Australia. And, Alex reflected bitterly, he would never catch up with the stolen weapon that Mrs. Jones was looking for—Royal Blue.
    In other words, he would have failed twice.
    But there was nothing he could do. The Kopassus soldiers had taken up positions across the square so that every angle was covered and nobody could move without being seen. They were still shouting in Indonesian. It didn’t really matter what they were saying. Their aim was to confuse and intimidate the opposition. And they seemed to have succeeded. The civilians inside the compound were standing helplessly. Some of them had raised their arms. The Kopassus was in control.
    They were made to line up. Alex found himself between Ash and one of the men who had first met them when they came from the airport. They were covered by at least half a dozen guns. At the same time, three of the soldiers were searching inside the offices and warehouses, making sure there was nobody hiding. One of the toy workers had decided to do exactly that. Alex heard a scream, then the smash of breaking glass as the unfortunate man was hurled, headfirst, through a window. He came crashing down in the courtyard, blood streaming from his face. Another of the soldiers lashed out with a foot and the man howled, then gathered himself to his feet and limped over to join the line.
    One last man had climbed out of the jeep. This was presumably the commanding officer. He was unusually tall for an Indonesian, with a long, slender neck and black hair coming down to his shoulders. Alex heard one of the soldiers refer to him as kolonel and guessed that must be his rank. Slowly the colonel made his way along the line, shouting out instructions. He was asking for ID.
    One after another the toy workers produced scraps of paper, driver’s licenses or work permits. The man who had been thrown out of the window held his up with shaking hands. The colonel didn’t seem interested in any of them. Then he reached Ash. Alex tried not to look as Ash took out the fake passport they had been given in Bangkok. He was afraid his eyes might give something away. He glanced down as the colonel opened the passport and held it up to the light. On the edge of his vision, he saw the colonel hesitate. Then suddenly the man struck out, hitting Ash on both sides of the face with the offending document and screaming at him in his own language. Two soldiers appeared from nowhere, pinning Ash’s arms behind his back and forcing him down onto his knees. The barrel of a machine gun was pressed into his neck. The colonel handed the passport to one of his subordinates. For a moment he examined Ash’s face, gazing into his eyes as if his true identity might be found there. Then he moved on.
    He stopped in front of Alex.
    Alex looked up. He was scared, and he didn’t care if he looked it. Maybe the man would decide that he was just a kid and leave him alone. But the colonel didn’t care how old he was. He smelled blood. Something like a smile spread over his face, and he rapped out a sentence in Indonesian, holding out a hand for Alex’s ID. Alex froze. He didn’t have his own passport. That was in Ash’s pocket. But even if he was able to produce it, the colonel would know it was fake. Should he tell the man who he was? Just a few words in English would do the trick. End the danger. End the mission too.
    It began to rain.
    No. It wasn’t quite like that. In London, rain has a beginning, a few drops that send people scattering for cover and allow time for umbrellas to rise. In Jakarta, there was no warning. The rain fell as if a skin had burst. In an instant it was flooding down, warm and solid, an ocean of rain that spluttered out of the drainpipes, hammered against the roofs, and turned the earth to mud.
    And with the flood came a brief moment of